your first poem


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They say you know a writer loves you
When they write about you,
It doesn’t matter if it’s good
Or bad
Just as long as they write about you.
You can be sure they love you.
Can you forgive me
For not writing a single thought down
About you?
I have avoided this feeling for a while now.
So forgive me for being
Out of practice
And stumbling through my writing
And tripping over line breaks
Forgive me for not looking you in the eye
So I wont have to try to think of a metaphor that will forever remind me of you.
I don’t want to write about you.
It’s been ninety nine days since I’ve last written about someone,
And I’m still trying to figure out your rhythm.

You were my poem


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You were my poem.
You were in the words that slipped through my fingers
And onto a blank page.
You were my free verse
because only the best things are free and without structure.
You were my prose
Delicately painting a picture of forever in my head
That would last long after I set the piece down.
Even though you have left
You are still my poem.
You are the unfinished ideas
And forgotten words
You are the theme that was a little too forced.
You are in the poem somewhere in the middle of my notebook
That I can’t figure out how to end

Finding the sound of anticipation again


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He had left three months ago.
And it had taken up until today
For her to catch her breath again.
She walked to the edge of the cliff again.
The salty breeze hit her and filled her lungs.
And the wind danced around her head and pulled more hair out of her braid.
She could see their favorite spot from where she stood
And the dark blue and purple clouds were coming over the waves,
Calling them to ride taller and faster.
She closed her eyes and listened.
It had been so long since she had heard it,
She needed to hear it again.
And there it was,
The stillness between the waves,
The sound of anticipation.
The sound of a new beginning
She wasn’t sure if it would bring pain and loneliness.
Or something completely different
But she wanted it
The sound of something new
The sound of something beginning

My dreams have outgrown me


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Silly little girl,
Always searching.
Never knowing what you’re looking for,
But always searching for it.
Silly little girl.
Chasing that silly little dream,
As if it were still possible.
Silly little girl,
Talent fades,
And in this world it’s who you know that matters,
Not how much you
Love what you do.
Silly little girl,
It’s time to grow up.
Put down that silly little dream,
And pick up something more suitable for you.
I hear they’re always looking
for more high school English teachers.

I will choose to listen to my ever steady heartbeat instead


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She took a deep breath and looked around
The now half-empty room.
He had officially left her,
And taken every trace of him
And their memories with him.
Although her mind screamed,
“I’m lifeless, I’m nothing,
My heart, my love is gone”
Before it could say another word,
Her heart beat against her chest
Hard and strong and steady,
“I am still here. I am still strong.
I am still alive.”

You would be more effective than my morning cup of coffee


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Mornings and I have never been the best of friends.
He always greets me with
Tangled hair, blurry eyes, and a raspy voice.
I fight off the morning with bitter coffee and hot oatmeal
The monotonous routine helps me survive the mornings grip,
But yesterday,
When my routine was ruined
And I was on my second cup of coffee,
You walked in with a smile on your face,
That woke me up faster
Than the darkest roast anyone could brew.
“Happy morning!”
You greeted me-
Without the slightest hint of sarcasm.
And it was then I decided
That mornings couldn’t possibly be so horrible
If you became part of the routine.

“It’s the little things,” God told me. “Look out for the little things”


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“It’s sunshine kissing a bare shoulder,
Wind teasing the ends of your hair
A call from someone whom your heart misses,
And a smile from a stranger.

It’s the sigh that accompanies
Cup of tea after a long day
And whispered words on an early morning
Coffee date at the kitchen table.

It’s the small daisy growing out of the sidewalk cracks
When you feel the weight of the busy world around you.

It’s the way the ocean both thrills and terrifies you with its power,
And the way the quiet mountains still your anxieties.

It’s the little things, my love,
Look for me in the little things.”

I will one day believe that I am a writer


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Since middle school I have doubted all
the potential in myself.
I have tried to swallow the bitter pill
that I “just might not be cut out to be a writer”
At what point did I decide
that I could only have a minimum amount of talent?
Why is it an unfathomable thought
that I can be good at something?
When did I decide that nothing I could conjure up
Would be a worthwhile read?
I have ignored the fact that my fingers are restless
until they produce the words in my mind
that only have a voice on a silent blank page.
I dismiss the fact that instead of
Doodling in my notes I
Fill the margin with a poem
About the boy who told me
That I will one day be a great writer.
I have never been eloquent in my speech,
I speak in whispers and
Stumble over three word sentences.
But writing is my shout into
This loud world.
Writing has consistently
Revealed to me
Who I am,
Where I am at.
Writing is not the window to my soul
But the map and tourist manual
Packed into one.
And on that map,
All roads lead to one central location,
One simple sign that reads:
You are here
In the middle of
This writer’s beating heart.


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